


tired.

by heartshapedcookie



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: M/M, college boys, meremy, partially deaf jeremy, they're at the same college but different dorms because it be like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 16:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13462188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartshapedcookie/pseuds/heartshapedcookie
Summary: “He lives,” Michael says, a little too loudly.“I live,” Jeremy replies. He’s still groggy and there’s a hot-pink pain in either ear from sleeping with his aids in, but Michael makes the world seem a little less daunting.





	tired.

**Author's Note:**

> im @tinylittle-femalechrist on tumblr and today i woke up and decided i was gonna project onto jeremy heere

tired.

He doesn’t text Michael after lecture lets out because he’s relatively certain his phone is trapped at the bottom of his backpack under a jumble of folders and loose notes, and the thought of digging through that clutter in front of everyone makes his skin prickle and his throat tighten ominously. The moment the professor dismisses them, he slings his bag over his shoulder and squeezes his way through the crush of bodies, ignoring the elbows to the ribs and sharp glances he catches along the way. He should probably stop by the mail center or grab some food—visiting the union is a mountain he can’t scale today—or at the very least text his boyfriend, but he can barely find it within himself to climb the steps out of the lecture hall and he knows none of that is going to happen.

The day is bright and beaming and bursting noisily with static, a thousand yammering voices rising to the sky like sunny whorls of champagne bubbles. He weaves his way through the crowd, crossing the plaza with his head down and knuckles going white around the straps of his backpack. It reminds him of high school, of getting slapped with the wall of white noise every time he walked into the building. There’s a dim pain behind his eyes; he walks faster.

By the time he reaches his dorm, his ears are ringing and he can feel panic clouding in his chest. It’s so stupid to be intimidated by a ten minute walk, but the world is overwhelming to him, the world is constantly humming and circling, and the panic pushes and folds against his ribs and his hands are shaking and he almost drops his student card before he can shove it against the door sensor and he’s and he’s just—

_you can’t just listen_

He doesn’t remember making it to his dorm, but suddenly he’s standing in his room with the lights off. Aside from the gentle whir of the air conditioner, the space is quiet and dark and the pounding in his head ebbs into something more manageable, less apocalyptic. Jeremy exhales slowly, trying to press his panic back down into the corners of his chest, then drops his backpack on the floor.

 _You should text Michael,_ he thinks as he toes his shoes off and flops onto the bed. _You didn’t answer him after Stats and he’ll probably be worried—_

Jeremy’s asleep before he can even finish the thought and he doesn’t realize he’s forgotten to remove his hearing aids until the click of the door opening and the rush of voices in the hallway jolt him from a hazy dream. Blinking lethargically, he squints at the figure in the doorway.

“Jer?”

Conscious only in the clinical sense, Jeremy glances at his phone—six-forty-seven, he slept through dinner—and back again at the intruder. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s Michael, holding a plastic bag and smiling warmly. Although his expression is a study in perfect calm and nonchalance, there’s a slight hitch in his shoulders that suggests a day of checking his Messages app and bouncing his leg.

“He lives,” Michael says, a little too loudly.

“I live,” Jeremy replies. He’s still groggy and there’s a hot-pink pain in either ear from sleeping with his aids in, but Michael makes the world seem a little less daunting. “Sorry I didn’t text you, I was…” He makes a weird, helpless gesture that Michael accepts wordlessly.

“No worries. Class is a bitch.”

Jeremy sits up with a snort. “You sound like Rich.”

  
“Richard Goranski rides a Razor scooter to class, so I’m gonna thank you for that compliment,” Michael retorts, ever defensive of his chaotic idol. He places the bag at Jeremy’s feet, then plants his elbows on the mattress and cups his chin in his hands, his smile only slightly forced. “How’s it going?”

“It’s…” The soft, ruby-colored light that Michael seemed to bring into the room fades, replaced by the stormy pall that’s been clouding his mental skies lately. “I don’t know. I’m… I’m tired, I think.”

“That’s okay, dude,” Michael says, reaching out to give Jeremy’s knee a reassuring squeeze. “It’s the start of the semester. Nobody knows what the fuck’s going on.”

“Yeah, but—It just seems like it’s so easy for everyone else,” Jeremy blurts. “All I did today was sit in lecture and take notes and stuff, and everyone else was fine, but I could barely handle it. It was a fucking Stats lecture! Who gets overwhelmed by just sitting in lecture?”

Michael is silent for a moment, rubbing his thumb contemplatively across the blankets; Jeremy sinks into the sheets, too drained to be embarrassed by his outburst. He knows Michael doesn’t care if he gets frustrated, but he cares, he cares because he’s a freshman in college who breaks instead of bending and has a brain laced with circuitry and has to sleep for four hours after a morning of lectures. He cares about feeling weak and out of control and inadequate.

“Hey.” Michael pulls himself up onto the bed. The way he wraps his arms around Jeremy is purposeful, but not at all forceful; Jeremy melts into the embrace. “Of course it’s easier for other people. Other people aren’t having to focus twice as hard. The fact that you made it through all those lectures is totally badass and I’m, like, super fucking proud of you, dude. You’re doing so well.”

The dim pain behind his eyes returns, this time preceding an onslaught of tears. His attempts at swallowing back the lump in his throat are met with resistance, forcing him to take in a shuddering breath. Michael slowly traces his hand down Jeremy’s back—taking care to avoid the old scars forking across his spine like citracized lightning—and waits for him to settle back down.

“I’m just really tired,” Jeremy eventually mumbles into Michael’s shoulder. He means it in every sense of the word.

“You’re allowed to be tired.”

“I know, but…” Jeremy sighs, worrying his lower lip. “I don’t want to be.”

  
“Well, lucky for you, you can be as tired as you want tonight and start fresh tomorrow because your roommate is rushing like a moron and my seven-thirty got cancelled,” Michael announces. He breaks away to grab and upend the plastic bag, spilling his spoils onto the blanket—Panda Express, still hot. “God let this stupid university have one good thing and that was a Panda Express right next to the arts building.”

“God also put those cats you love so much on the engineering quad,” Jeremy reminds him, feeling a smile push through the heaviness.

“Fine. God put two good things on this campus. That makes the tuition money worth it.”

As Michael cracks open the rice container and starts ranting about his production professor—periodically resting a hand on Jeremy’s leg or brushing his curls out of his eyes—Jeremy folds the sheets back. He’s still exhausted, but Michael’s voice is so familiar, so warm and bright without being blinding, that he doesn’t have to concentrate on it at all.

He sleeps through the night, Michael’s arms laced securely around him, and dreams of silence and red light.


End file.
